


Old Eyes

by getluckywithbucky



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, non-human Bucky, vaguely inspired by dead like me, very vaguely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-01 03:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4004704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getluckywithbucky/pseuds/getluckywithbucky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Steve saw the dark-haired boy, he was 9 and his head was being bashed into the blacktop. He wasn't sure if he was a hallucination or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When I get bored, I like to read through stories on Creepy Catalog. I read the title of one and immediately decided I needed to write this.

It wasn’t all that unusual for Steve to wake up in an alley, covered in blood and bruises. He’d never been particularly good at “letting things go” or turning away from a fight, and more often than not he paid for trying to do the right thing with fractured bones and torn skin. It wasn’t all that unusual for him to wake up in the hospital, battered and broken and with his mom reading a book in the chair next to his bed, or, later, in college, with Sam flipping through a magazine.

It also wasn’t unusual to see things he probably shouldn’t be able to see. At first, he’d thought he was just the hallucination of a kid getting his skull bashed against the hard cement ground. He was 9 and scrawny and full of righteous fury, throwing tiny fists at a 12 year old boy who’d been bullying a classmate of Steve’s at the playground’s basketball court.

The bully’s friends stood by, laughing and hooting their support for the older boy as he straddled Steve and wailed on him. His vision went blurry with every crack of his skull against the ground and all he could think through the pain was “I’m gonna die, he’s gonna kill me.”

That was the first time Steve saw him. He looked like a kid, maybe a little older than Steve himself with dark hair and sun-kissed skin, but his eyes were old and pale and when he knelt and put his finger to his lips, Steve went still. The bully got a few more hits in, and Steve barely noticed when an adult came rushing over and pulled the other boy off of him, screaming at the boy between her shouts for someone to call an ambulance.

Before he lost consciousness, he saw the dark-haired boy nod and then, like he’d never been there at all, he vanished.

 

 

The next time he saw the boy, they were both older. Steve was 13 and still fighting playground bullies. He never won, not once, but as long as their attention was focused on him, they couldn’t torment anyone else. This time, a white girl about his age had been messing with a young, small black girl, probably no older than 10, calling her names and taking her toys from her. He tried not to get involved, he really did, but when the white girl grabbed the other girl by her braids and threw her to the ground, Steve knew that wasn’t going to happen.

He was on the other side of the park before he knew what he was doing, yelling.

Just as fast, two boys – the girl’s older brothers, though he didn’t know that at the time – had grabbed him and it wasn’t long before, once again, Steve found himself punching and kicking at boys twice his size. It wasn’t long before they’d slammed his head against a tree and threw him to the ground, one of them sitting on his chest as he struggled to breathe.

Of course he’d have an asthma attack while getting the shit beat out of him.

Of course the boys would drag him towards the ornamental pond only a few dozen feet away.

Right before they shoved his head under the water, he saw the dark haired boy again, older than last time but still so young with such old eyes and again the dark haired boy knelt and lifted his finger to his lips.

Like the time before, Steve went limp, but it was harder this time. He couldn’t get a breath in before they shoved him under, his lungs struggling even before he took the first gulp of dank pond water instead of air.

The boys let him go, and he woke in the hospital a few days later.

 

 

The third time, Steve had been careful. It was winter, colder than his lungs would have liked. He was 16 and winter break was upon them. Most kids were at home playing video games in their nice, warm apartments, spending time with their parents or on vacations to warmer climes.

Steve, though, was sick. Sicker than he’d been letting on, because his mom had the flu and he didn’t want to make her take care of him when she needed help, too. He’d been sick a lot in his life. He’d always been small for his age, a gift of bad luck in the genetic lottery, sickly and frail.

If it wasn’t asthma, it was whatever seasonal bug was going around, and he figured that he was suffering from a weather related cold. His mom needed him more than he needed to rest. Sure, his lungs and chest felt tight and hurt and his cough was wet and disgusting, and he could barely breathe through his nose, but he knew he’d be fine.

Getting to the pharmacy to pick up his mom’s medication was what was most important, not his cold. He pulled his jacket a bit tighter around himself against the wind and trudged through the slushy snow. He hated the cold, hated the way it bit at his nose and made his breathing labored, made his knees and joints ache.

He was two blocks from the store when he started coughing, wet, hacking coughs that he did his best to hide when at home. He didn’t want his mom to worry, because if there was one thing Sarah Rogers was good at, it was worrying over Steve. Just when he thought he could catch his breath, another coughing fit hit – and then another, and another, and he had to sit down on a nearby stoop just to keep himself from falling to the sidewalk. When he glanced down at his gloved hands, he groaned. The white wool was splattered with mucus, pink and red and thick.

It explained why his throat hurt so badly, at least.

He sat there for a few minutes, scarf wrapped around his face so he could try and bring in deep breaths through the material, before he finally relented and pulled out his inhaler to take two puffs.

Steve only had one more coughing fit before he continued on his way to the store. Right before he walked in, on the other side of the road, he saw him. The boy was watching him, dark hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and his old eyes focused on Steve’s face. They watched each other for a moment, but the promise of warm air and maybe some cold medicine for himself won out and Steve turned to walk into the store. When he glanced over his shoulder, the boy was gone.

He tried to push it from his mind; maybe, Steve decided, he was more ill then he had thought. He’d had his fair share of fevers, knew that hallucinations happened when they got high enough. It had to have been a hallucination, because Steve can’t remember having ever seen the other boy before except when concussed.

He needed to get home and didn’t dally in the store – just grabbed what he came for and smiled at the pharmacist as she handed him Sarah’s medicine and inquired after her health.

“She’s getting better, but I think I’m starting to get a cold.” Steve said, sheepish, handing over the cash.

The pharmacist tutted at him, “Then get home and get some rest. Can’t have both of you sick!”

Steve tried to grin but ended up coughing into his sleeve instead, “Yes, ma’am.”

He barely noticed her concerned look as he turned to leave. By the time he was back outside, he was exhausted and the short walk home seemed endless. Steve groaned, leaning against the building and watching the passing cars as he worked up the energy to move again.

It wasn’t until he was a block away from home that he realized there was someone walking next to him. When he glanced over, the boy was in step with him, eyes focused clearly ahead of him but Steve knew that the boy was completely aware of him.

This close, Steve couldn’t deny that the boy was real. He could feel warmth radiating from his arms, close to his own, and could hear the crunch of his boots in the snow. He looked warm and safe, like nothing bad could ever happen as long as they’re near each other.

“Um.”

“Eyes ahead, Stevie. You gotta focus on the road, okay?” The boy’s voice was deeper than Steve though it would be, more like he’d expect of a man than a reedy 16 year old. It matched those eyes. He should probably have been surprised that the boy knew his name, but it felt natural, normal. Of course he knew his name; the boy had been watching him for years, “Just keep your feet moving and mind the curb.”

Steve forced his gaze away and back to the sidewalk ahead of him. At the curb, he glanced both ways, eyes lingering just a moment on the dark-haired boy, before he stepped forward. The boy was still in step beside him, until suddenly he wasn’t, until everything hurt and there was the screech of metal and brakes and the feeling of warm arms wrapped around him as everything went black.

 

When he awoke in the hospital a week later, his mother in one of the uncomfortable chairs, the doctors proclaimed it a miracle that he’d survived not only being hit head on by the car with only a few broken bones, but the severe pneumonia he’d kept hidden. He asked about the other boy, the dark haired boy that was walking with him.

The doctor said he’d been alone.

 

 

Steve saw the boy one more time before he really spoke with him.

He was 21. The apartment he lived in with his roommate Sam was a whole in the wall place, barely big enough for the both of them and all their accumulated junk for school. A whole wall in the living room had been dedicated to Steve’s art supplies, and Sam was nice enough to never complain about it. It was an old building and Steve figured there were at least a few code violations, but the rent was cheap enough for two college students working their way through school with student loans and part time employment.

Steve was still small and had resigned himself to always being that way. It wasn’t a problem, honestly. Most of the problems he’d had as a child had cleared up; his spine was still crooked, but it was better after years of treatment, and his lungs didn’t seize up on him as often as they had. Even the limp from the last time he’d seen the boy, when he’d been struck by the car and broke his femur, had faded over the years.

The new term hadn’t started yet, the August heat overbearing at times but still preferable to the bone-deep chill of winters in upstate New York. Their AC was running over-time, but it was running and really that’s all Steve could ask for. Sam was away, visiting his sister in D.C., and Steve was honestly enjoying the solitude to work on his portfolio and start new projects before the new semester dragged him into studio classes again.

He didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until he heard a familiar voice at his shoulder and felt a too-warm hand press against his back. “Stevie. C’mon, Stevie, you gotta wake up.”

He grumbled, trying to shimmy away from the voice and back into the nice doze he’d found himself in. The room was so warm and his arms were comfortable.

The next time the voice of the boy spoke, his words were more urgent and his hand pressed harder. “Get up, you punk. You gotta get up now.”

It was the tone more than the words that had Steve lift his head and look around, bleary eyed. There was no one in the room.

What there was, however, was thick, heavy smoke above his head, slowly drifting to fill the space, and the scent of burning plastic. He jolted out of his seat, chair crashing to the floor. He couldn’t tell where the fire was, only knew it wasn’t in his unit because it would be so much smokier if it was. He snatched his portfolio from the floor, full of his art and most of his supplies, carelessly tossing his laptop and cable into the bag before making for the fire escape beneath his bedroom window. When he got there, he realized two things in quick succession: the window had been painted shut and his lungs were starting to seize up.

Frantic, he looked around his room for someway to get out and his eyes fell instead on the boy – a man now, more so than Steve probably looked, frantic blue eyes and sleep mussed blond hair – sitting on the edge of his bed and watching him.

“It’s okay, Steve. You’re gonna be okay.” The man stood, walking towards him and placing his hands on Steve’s shoulders. He was so much taller, so much broader than Steve and his touch eased the clenching of his lungs enough that he could get a breath in, more smoke than air but enough.

“I-I can’t…” Steve choked on a sob, because he was going to die in a burning building because his asshole super couldn’t be bothered to fix the fucking windows.

The man pulled him in, wrapped those arms around him, and Steve knew he was putting a finger to his lips like he had before, all those years ago, “You can. I’ll help you. You’re gonna be okay, Stevie.”

The next thing Steve knew, the man was pulling away and snatching up the small wooden dresser by the bed and sending it careening toward the window. It shattered, glass spraying out to the escape and the street below.

Steve nodded, grabbing his portfolio and using it to knock out the rest of the glass before he scampered through. He could feel the glass cutting into his pants as he moved, and once out on the fire escape he turned back. “Hey-“ but the man was gone, vanished like the smoke dissipating in the evening air.

He didn’t stay long enough to question it and hurried down to the street where the other tenants stood, some watching the building burn and some crying as their homes were engulfed by the inferno.

The man was right, the building wouldn’t last long. Steve was only on the street for a moment before the structure began to collapse, the fire eating away at the support.

With shaking hands, Steve called Sam. He didn’t tell him about the man, the man that Steve had realized must have been more than just a man. He wasn’t sure if he’d been hallucinating him, before, but there was no way Steve could have done what he did, no way Steve could have smashed that window. He didn’t know who he was, or what, but Steve had been raised Catholic and wondered, when he hung up with Sam and called his mom, if maybe he was a guardian angel.

 

 

When he finally learned who the man was, Steve was in the cemetery. It was fitting, he would later muse, that it was over his mother’s freshly filled grave that the man would appear.

He wasn’t in danger. At 26, Steve was the healthiest he’d ever been. Still small, but the gauntness brought about by years of illness was gone. He looked healthy and whole and for a while there, happy.

He’d been illustrating comic books for a few years now; he loved it and it was a steady income, money that he shared with his mom when he’d found out that she was out of work. She’d moved to Florida for work when Steve started college at a nice hospital with decent pay. Only a few years later, the hospital had let go a number of their nurses, and Sarah had thought she’d be safe from the layoffs. The new administration didn’t particularly care what Sarah thought.

But Steve was happy to help, because while he’d been slowly getting better, age was just as slowly catching up with Sarah. Not only age, but with work, she could barely afford the medications she’d needed for years.

It was cancer that killed her. They hadn’t even known she had it, not at first, but considering the abysmal state of the healthcare system and how neither of them could afford the bills, Sarah had stayed quiet when she found out. Steve didn’t know that she refused treatment because she couldn’t afford it. When they spoke, Sarah never said a word, never told him that she was dying.

And then the same hospital that had fired her called him and told him she was dead. He was numb as he handled the affairs, as he flew down to Florida to claim her body and arrange to have her body sent back to New York to be buried beside his father. Steve was numb while he arranged the funeral, numb while he told his distant cousins and her old friends from their neighborhood in Brooklyn.

He was numb when he rode in the car in front of the hearse after the wake, and numb as they lowered her into the ground.

It was late fall, and the leaves had long since fallen. He was glad it wasn’t sunny, that the sky was the normal overcast of mid November. He was glad that even the weather was muted as he watched the only family he had be put to rest.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Steve had survived so many stupid fights and illnesses and accidents and his mother, the kindest, warmest person he had ever known, had died because of some assholes had decided that the poor didn’t deserve health.

His aunt had flown in from Ireland and held him close for a long time, and even then he still felt numb.

 

It was hours later, after the last straggler had left, when Steve saw him. He was leaning on a monument nearby, watching him with those old, blue eyes, but this time they were tinged with sadness. When their eyes met, the man pushed off of the monument and slowly made his way towards him.

The man plopped down next to him, the soft sound so much louder in the stillness of the graveyard. Neither of them spoke for a long while, and it was the man who broke the silence. His voice was soft, gentle, “I’m sorry about your mother.”

Steve’s jaw clenched. He was sick of platitudes, of people apologizing like that would do anything to fix the situation, like it would do anything to bring her back. He scowled, glaring ahead at the tombstone. He knew he was crying.

Soft, warm fingers pressed to his brow, easing the lines and Steve turned back to the man. “I know sorry doesn’t change her fate. It doesn’t change anyone’s fate. But still, I’m sorry you have to suffer this way.”

The man looked away, hand dropping to rest between their bodies. The sharp contract between Steve’s pale, thin hand and the man’s tanned, strong fingers made him want, irrationally, to draw them. To capture those differences in graphite and charcoal. “Thanks.”

“No. Don’t thank me. Never, ever thank me.” The man huffed, a strangled sound that was probably meant to be a laugh.

“Not even for saving me?”

“Especially not for that. I’ve broken more rules in the last 18 years than I ever thought I possibly could.” His tone was self-deprecating, but Steve heard the fondness underneath it, the softness. Whoever the man was, whatever rules he’d broken, Steve knew he didn’t regret any of it. Regret sat on a person a certain way, ate away at them, and Steve couldn’t see any of that in the man next to him.

They sat in silence again, listening to the far off sound of the roads and the city beyond the gates of the cemetery. For the first time since he’d gotten the call, Steve felt the numbness retreating.

The man beside him shifted like he was going to get up, and Steve reached out a hand to his shoulder, “Please don’t go.”

The man smiled, small, and settled a bit closer. “I can’t stay too long, Steve, but I can spare a little longer.”

“Other people to save?”

The laugh the man gave was harsh, “I don’t save people.” That didn’t make sense, and his confusion must have shown on his face because the man sighed, words soft, “You’ve been an exception. You’re something special, Stevie. I couldn’t… I ain’t never been good at doing my job when you’re involved.”

And suddenly it made sense, why the man was always there when Steve was sure he was about to die, when he was getting his skull bashed in or drowned or sick enough to get himself hit by a car.

The man wasn’t an angel, or if he was, he wasn’t a guardian. “You’re Death, aren’t you?”

The man leaned back on his elbows, face angled to the sky, those old, old eyes focused on the clouds above. “Just one. There’s not… there’s no singular Death, you know? It’s a big job. There are a lot of us.”

Steve looked back to his mother’s grave, dirt still fresh and fragrant. Did the man, an incarnation of Death, sitting next to him have anything to do with her own demise.

“I know what that look means,” the man said, quietly. Steve hadn’t even realized he’d turned back to look at him. “We’ve all got jobs. A lot of people die, but we don’t kill them. Sometimes it feels like we do. I mean, God, I’ve been around a long time and it never gets easier, knowing what’s gonna happen to some poor shmuck who ain’t got a clue what’s coming.”

Steve stayed silent, knowing the man would continue in time.

“I didn’t ferry her, either. I asked to. I wanted to at least do that so I could tell her I’d keep an eye on you. But Natasha was the one, and if I couldn’t… well, she passed on the message, at least.” The man paused and Steve wasn’t sure if it was okay for him to be telling Steve these things, but the man didn’t seem to care. Sometimes, Steve figured, even a ferryman of the dead needed to talk – and Steve didn’t mind listening, didn’t mind keeping him with him for just a little bit longer.

“I, uh, deal with accidental deaths. Murders, fights, stupid drunk fratboys who think they can fly. Others ferry the sick, the old.” The man shrugged like it was no big deal, like it was a normal conversation.

Steve bumped their arms together, “Explains how you got stuck with me.”

“I ain’t never seen a punk like you, Steve. Never in all my years. We’re not supposed to interfere, not supposed to stop what we know’s coming.” The man grinned at Steve, and all he could see in it was kindness, fondness, “You’ve got the soul of a bigger man, the heart of someone who just wants to cling to life. I’ll break every rule if it means you keep on breathin’.”

Steve looked down at his dirt stained knees, at the brown grass they sat in. He wasn’t sure he was worth all that, wasn’t sure that some kid from Brooklyn was worth the protection, but he had it and he was grateful, so grateful, because it meant that he’d been able to at least make it to now.

He hated having to bury his mother, but he knew that I would have destroyed her to have buried him. To have buried him at 9 after some brats decided to decorate the sidewalk with his blood; to have buried him at 13 after being drowned by kids who probably thought it was hilarious; to have buried him at 16 after being hit by a car only a block from their home because she had needed medicine; to have buried him at 21, what was left of him, after the fire that reduced his apartment hundreds of miles away to ash.

Sarah never had to bury her child, never had to feel that heartache. In a way, it made her death easier, knowing that, yeah, he’d scared her more times than he would have liked, but he never left her alone.

“You told me never to thank you for saving me,” Steve said finally, gesturing with a shaky hand at Sarah Rogers’ grave, “But, you know, you saved her too. And I can thank you for that.”

The sun was starting to set and the chill was coming back to the air, and Steve was underdressed for nightfall. The man moved closer when he saw Steve shiver, draping an arm over his shoulder. He was just as warm as he’d been before, and Steve felt just as safe. Instead of words, the man just squeezed his shoulder.

They sat like that for a while, until the sun had dipped below the horizon and the lights began to come on along the paths. Finally, the man nudged Steve, who had started to doze against his shoulder, and slowly, gently, pulled him to his feet.

“C’mon, Stevie, let’s get you inside.”

Steve nodded, “Yeah. I don’t much like the cold.”

They walked in companionable silence, and it was the longest Steve had ever seen the other man. It was nice, considering who he was, and Steve didn’t want him to go. The thing about death, though, was that it was always happening. The man couldn’t spend all his time with Steve. It didn’t sit well with him.

By the time they reached his hotel, he’d accepted that he probably wouldn’t see the man again for a while, not until the next time he gets his ass handed to him in an alleyway.

“Get some rest, Steve.” The man squeezed his hands.

It was only as he turned away that Steve realized he didn’t know his name.

It was only when he reached his room that he realized he was holding a scrap of paper, written on in scrawled cursive.

“Steve,” it read, “I’m just a call away, even if you’re not in danger. Sometimes I forget what it’s like to be around the living. – Bucky.”

Beneath the name was a phone number.

Steve couldn’t stop himself from laughing. A ferryman of the dead with a cellphone number. An ages-old reaper named _Bucky_.

He changed out of his suit, pulling on the pajama bottoms and tshirt he’d brought with him. When he plugged his phone in to charge for the night, he sent off 2 text messages.

The first was to Sam, letting him know that he was okay and that he’d be back to D.C. in a few days.

The second was to Bucky, “ _I didn’t peg you as a Bucky. Thanks for being there today._ ”

Bucky replied in less than a minute, nothing more than a smiley face and “ _Any time, Stevie._ ”

He fell asleep smiling.


	2. Young Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I couldn't just leave this story. I enjoyed writing the first part, but wanted to build the ferrymen/reaper structure a bit more. A lot is pulled from Dead Like Me, but I also fudged a lot. So this is basically the same events as the previous part, but from Bucky's perspective.
> 
> This bit is also a gift for the magnificent [Natalie](http://viridieanfey.tumblr.com), my best friend, who graduated from art school today! Congratulations, Nat! HERE HAVE SOME FIC.

He was born in 1917 and died in 1945, just a few weeks shy of his 28th birthday. It wasn’t a glorious death, like people liked to pretend death in battle was. It was painful and degrading, covered in mud and grit while he bled out on the ground surrounded by his fellow soldiers. Some of them would survive, but some of them would share his fate and as he curled into himself on the ground, slowly dying, he wondered which fate was worse.

To die in the muck on some street in France, or to go home with scars that would never heal and that feeling that maybe, just maybe, he should have died with those other men.

Bucky knew he wasn’t going home except in a casket.

And he was fucking pissed about it, but it was stupid to let his last few minutes be nothing but rage at the shitty hand he was dealt.

So he thought about his sister, about how Rebecca would be 16 soon and even if he wouldn’t be there to see it, she’d be okay, because their folks treated her so well.

He thought about how his mom would be heartbroken, but he knew her – she’d put that grief into doing good to help the soldiers that did make it home and comforting the families of those who didn’t.

His dad… well, his dad knew it was a possibility, had told him the night before he shipped out that no matter what, no matter how bad things got, whether he came home or not, he’d always be proud of him.

Maybe those things could be enough.

He was drifting faster, thoughts more sluggish and vision blurring, when he saw her walking amongst the injured, the dying, and the dead. She had dark hair and brown eyes, and her lips were painted red, so red, her jaw square, and Bucky figured if he was gonna die, then at least the last thing he saw was someone so beautiful.

She stopped next to him and kneeled down, her slacks pulling against her thighs, and pressed a hand to his head, stroking the hair away from his face. He hadn’t even realized he’d lost his helmet.

“Rest, James,” she said, soft English accent comforting in a way he didn’t really expect, “I’ll be here when you wake.”

What a stupid thing to say, though, Bucky thought, considering that he was bleeding out in filth. He wanted to beg her to find a medic, beg her to staunch the bleeding. He couldn’t talk though, couldn’t get his mouth to work right, and finally he faded out.

 

But he did wake up. Not in a hospital or in a field medical tent, but right where he’d been. The woman was still there. When he sat up, he noticed two things immediately – he didn’t hurt anymore, and his body stayed exactly where it had fallen.

He could see his own face in the muck, could see his own blue eyes staring vacantly ahead, the way his mouth, even in death, was slightly open like he was still trying to drag in just one more breath.

When it dawned on him that he was _sitting in his own corpse_ , he shot to his feet, stumbling and falling to the ground. The woman watched him, brown eyes as soft as her voice had been.

He zeroed in on her and their eyes met. “Welcome back.”

“ _Back_? Lady, I may be a soldier but I ain’t an idiot. It’s pretty clear that I’m dead.”

The woman nodded and stood, “Yes, you are. I’m sorry it had to happen like this.”

Bucky said nothing, just stared up at her. He was dead. He was his own fucking ghost, sitting in the middle of a war-torn street surrounded by rubble and dirt and dead friends. “What now?”

She offered her hand to him, but he hesitated in reaching for it. What if it just passed right through? It didn’t though, and she pulled him to his feet. “Now, we talk.”

 

Her name, he found out, was Peggy. She herself had died in 1917, a lady agent fighting in the shadows of the first World War. It hadn’t been war that claimed her life – it had been influenza.

She had been offered the same thing she was then offering Bucky, a new task, a way to stay with the world, though slightly apart from it. He was dead, yes, but that didn’t mean he had to be gone.

He accepted the offer.

 

In 1950, his father was struck by a car on the way home from Rebecca’s wedding. Bucky was there to calm him and reassure him and bring him to the gateway to his afterlife. It was closure for them both, father and son reunited in death.

In 1963, he ferried the soul of John F. Kennedy to where ever he was going to end up. It wasn’t his place to know what came after, because he’d willingly given it up.

In 1965, he watched as another ferryman, a woman called Natasha, comforted his mother after her long illness.

In 1977, he reaped a child for the first time. It was the hardest thing he thought he’d ever have to do.

In 1997, he realized he was wrong.

 

Peggy handed him the name, the location, the time, and the cause of death. She’d always handed him these things, ever since he became a reaper. It wasn’t out of the ordinary. The note was the same as always, because even in death, maybe especially in death, everyone is the same. Death didn’t see the distinctions made by people.

_Steven Grant Rogers, Saratoga Park, Brooklyn, 3:54 pm, severe head trauma._

“Oh, and Barnes?” Peggy called as he turned to leave, and he turned back, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, Peg?”

She glanced down, and Bucky knew that look. Bucky _hated_ that look, because it meant that there was going to be something about this he wasn’t going to like. “You’ll want to look young for this one.”

His heart sank.

 

In 1997, Bucky first saw Steve Rogers. It was also the first time he deliberately disobeyed the rules.

The rules were simple: Never tell a living person what you are. Never interfere in the events surrounding a persons death. Never prevent a death. Never cause a death. Never refuse to ferry a recently deceased person to their afterlife.

Bucky couldn’t bring himself to let the kid die. He was so small, but he was fighting so hard, clinging so tightly to what life he had. And in all his years sheparding the dead, Bucky had never seen anyone so small so full of life. Had never seen anyone twice the kid’s size with as much life, with such a bright soul.

Steve was special, and when his blond head hit the pavement for the first time and still he struggled against his attackers, Bucky knew he wasn’t going to let the boy die.

The second time his head hit, Bucky knew how he was going to do it. He made sure he was in Steve’s line of sight, that the boy could see him clearly and when their eyes met, Bucky pressed his finger to his lips. Steve needed to play dead, play unconscious, long enough for help to come. And Steve, this kid who didn’t know him from Adam, who had no reason to think that Bucky was trying to help him, got it. He went limp, and only a few moments later, help arrived in the form of a woman who, Bucky noted with glee, railed on the bullies.

Bucky was gone before the ambulance arrived.

 

Peggy, as Bucky thought, wasn’t exactly happy with him.

“You can’t just make those decisions, James!” That was how Bucky knew she was pissed, more than her sharp tone and frowning red lips.

Bucky didn’t particularly care that she was angry, “You didn’t see him, Peggy! I don’t care what the powers that be said, that kid wasn’t supposed to die, not like that. He _glowed_ , he was scrawny and the most full of life kid I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t let those punks bash his fucking skull in.”

Peggy sighed, “Bucky, it’s not our place to decide who lives and dies. We’re reapers.”

“Not him, Peg. We’re not meant to take people like him.”

The thing that Bucky liked most about Peggy was that she played a good game at pretending like she followed all the rules, but he knew better. She was angry, there was no doubt about that, but he knew she understood, knew she’d let it slide because Bucky didn’t make rash decisions. He never broke the rules, never saw a reason to.

This time he had.

When she rolled her eyes, Bucky grinned. “Fine. Just be careful, Bucky. Don’t make this into a habit.”

“Give me his name again, and I can’t guarantee I won’t.”

 

Four years later, Peggy came by his apartment with a name. It was amazing how easy it was to pretend to be normal when he wasn’t working. He’d been living in the same place for a few years now, long enough that people knew that someone lived there but not long enough to have made a name for himself in the community. He followed that rule closely – don’t get close to the living.

As soon as he opened the door for her and let her in, Bucky knew exactly who he was meant to be reaping.

“I’m not gonna let him die, Peggy. You know that, right?”

Peggy smiled and handed him the piece of paper, done in her impeccable cursive, _Steven Grant Rogers, Saratoga Park, Brooklyn, 2:15 pm, asthma induced drowning_ , “I know. Why do you think I came here instead of calling you into the office?”

“Thanks, Peggy.”

He was grabbing his coat to head out when her hand on his arm stopped him. “After you told me about him, I went to see what had you so enraptured. There’s something engaging about him.”

That was as good as permission as far as he was concerned, and he tossed off a salute before he was out the door. He trusted Peggy to lock up when she left.

 

It was the panic that was making his asthma act up. Bucky could see it clear as day, could see the frantic way Steve tried to fight off the bigger boys and if Bucky wasn’t treading close to breaking all the rules, he would have intervened.

Sure, Peggy had given vague permission, but actively interfering, putting his hands on someone else was a whole new level of interference and with the way the rage was mounting, Bucky knew there would be death today, after all. If he waded in, if he dragged the two boys away, he’d kill them.

He had no plans to create demons.

He watched as they dragged a dazed Steve to the small pond, and, like before, their eyes met and Bucky placed his finger to his lips. He needed to calm down, he needed to breath. He wasn’t quite at an attack yet, and if he could just stay calm, Bucky could make sure he made it through. He watched as, again, Steve got the hint and went limp. The boys didn’t stick around long, and it was Bucky that pulled Steve from the water, Bucky that made sure his pulse hadn’t stopped, and Bucky that turned him on his side and forced the water from his lungs.

He begged a passerby to call an ambulance, and he sat with Steve until the paramedic arrived and took him away.

That night, Natasha invited him to get drinks. Alcohol didn’t do anything for them, had no effect on their nonexistent metabolism, and 6 beers and a few shots of vodka later, they were both as sober as they’d been before they sat down. It was the company, though, that made it worth it.

Also the spectacular tater tots.

Bucky, though, knew Natasha well. Hell, he’d known her _before_ his death, before her own, back when he’d been newly drafted to war and she was working as a nurse (despite being able to bring down men twice her size and being more terrifying than any enemy soldier). So he knew that Natasha wasn’t just treating him to drinks out of the kindness of her heart.

“So a little birdie told me you’ve been playing guardian angel.” Natasha finally said, and Bucky rolled his eyes.

“You mean Peggy.”

“Yep,” she said, popping the “p,” “something about a special kid with a glowing soul?”

Bucky sipped at his beer while Natasha stared him down. When she wanted, she had the most unnerving gaze and regularly got what she wanted. This was no different, “Fine. Yeah, I’ve been saving this kid. Peggy gave me his name, and I just… I couldn’t let him die. I ain’t never seen a soul like him.”

Natasha nodded, “I know a little something about that. Just be careful, Barnes. There’s a reason we do what we do.”

And that was the elephant, the thing that no one would talk about. There were rules for a reason, more than just for order. Unreaped souls became angry earthbound spirits, but those saved from death… there were a lot of things that could go wrong. Some handled it okay, moved on with their lives and were happy. Others… became wrong, shadows of the person they had been, angry and violent. Their souls were slowly decaying, dying souls living in half-alive bodies.

Steve, when Bucky last saw him, had shown no signs of decay. His soul was still bright, his body still clinging strongly to life. He told Natasha as much, shoving tater tots into his mouth like the slob he still sometimes was.

“If you get him again, if there’s any sign of soul death… James, you know you’ll need to reap him.”

He knew that. Knew it in his gut. Just as much though, he knew he’d never have to. Steve was strong. “Yeah.”

That night, he snuck into the hospital where he knew Steve was a patient and watched his chest rise and fall with easy, steady breathes. His soul shone as bright as it had that first day.

 

Bucky kept a close eye on Steve over the next few years, looking for tarnish along the edges of his soul, looking for signs that something was going wrong. The signs never showed. If anything, his soul only seemed to shine brighter, stronger with every passing day.

His health, however, wasn’t great. Bucky hated the way Steve always seemed to be sick, hated the way his lungs and his heart were working against him everyday. Hated the fear every winter since he noticed the slight boy, when his lungs filled with fluid and the pneumonia kept him bedridden and out of his sight. The only condolence he had was that Peggy never gave Natasha his name, because Bucky could save him from an accident, could save him from attack, but he couldn’t save him from illness. Not even Natasha could save him from that.

The next time Peggy gave Bucky his name, it was late December and colder than the year before. He knew Steve’s mom was sick, knew that Steve himself was hiding how shitty he felt so his mom wouldn’t worry. The blond boy was so selfless, so giving, and Bucky was maybe falling a little in love with him. He kept that to himself, tucked away where even Natasha couldn’t notice it.

_Steven Grant Rogers, Corner of Macon St and Ralph St, 11:13 am, struck by a vehicle._

Bucky clutched the note close in his pocket. There wouldn’t be no direct interference this time. He could almost imagine it; Steve, feverish and in a hurry to get home, stepping into the street and meeting his end there and then, alone and cold in a dirty, snow covered Brooklyn street. It would never happen.

Steve only noticed him right before he went into the Walgreens, bundled up in a thick woolen scarf and a heavy peacoat. Despite how warmly he was dressed, Bucky still saw him cough violently for a long moment, wet and wheezing and horrible. His blond hair was tousled, and though he was still small, would probably always be small, he was starting to look his age, puberty having started its grueling transformation.

They locked eyes, Steve’s a bit glassy and unfocused, cheeks flushed with cold and fever, until Steve turned and headed into the warmth of the pharmacy. As soon as he was out of sight, Bucky crossed the street to stand outside the door to wait.

He’d been in step with Steve for blocks before the other even notices him, and even then they’re only a few blocks from where Bucky knew he’d need to keep Steve safe. It was 11:09.

Steve’s eyes were wide when he looked at him, steps faultering just a bit before he recovered. They were close, close enough that Bucky knew Steve could feel the warmth that all reapers exuded, comfort and peace to those around them.

“Um.” Steve started, but his words fizzled before they even formed. Bucky stepped a bit closer.

“Eyes ahead, Stevie. You gotta focus on the road, okay?” It was the first thing Bucky said to him, and Bucky wished he could just tell Steve why he was there, why he was following him home like a concerned dog, “Just keep your feet moving and mind the curb.”

He was glad that Steve seemed more inclined to listen to him that question why, and when Steve’s eyes – blue like nothing Bucky had ever really seen before, the same color as his soul - faced forward again until, at 11:12, they reached the corner of Macon and Ralph. Steve glanced at him again, those eyes watching him for a moment and Bucky wanted to offer him a smile, some kind of reassurance. Instead, Bucky stepped into the street with him and took the brunt of the impact that was meant for Steve.

It hurt like a motherfucker, having a ton of speeding steel slam into your side, but it was better than the alternative, better than Steve getting the impact head on. The kid would be hurt, but the important thing was that he’d _survive_. They hit the ground, hard, Bucky wrapped tightly around Steve, knocked unconscious by the impact, but alive and breathing. The man driving the car panicked, slammed his door open and nearly fell out of the car in his haste to get to the two people in the road.

When he got there, though, Bucky had already made himself unseen and slowly, carefully, unwrapped himself from the groaning form of Steve. He stepped back, watched as the driver looked around, confused, before he shook it off and kneeled beside Steve and pulled out his cellphone to call for help.

Bucky was glad the driver was a decent person. There was still no sign of tarnishing on Steve’s soul.

 

When Steve left Brooklyn for college, Bucky put in for a transfer. Peggy had smiled knowingly, made a few calls, and a week later Bucky found himself in Rochester meeting with Nick Fury. Nick was terrifying, but Bucky wasn’t one to be easily intimidated. He’d seen enough fucked up shit when he was alive and after his death to rarely feel actual fear.

Nick, though, was as close to frightening as he’d encountered in many, many years.

Despite that, he was weirdly kind. No nonsense, but, like Peggy, he understood that sometimes the rules could be broken, needed to be broken.

When Fury handed over a typed piece of paper one morning with his assignment for the day, Bucky knew by the glint in his one good eye that he’d find a familiar name on the list.

He wasn’t wrong. There, in courier new font, was typed: _Steven Grant Rogers, Aspin Apartments, 6:40 pm, building fire._

He nodded when he accepted the paper and turned to go before Fury’s voice stopped him. “I know you’re not gonna reap him. Peggy told me all about it.”

“Sir?”

“Don’t bullshit me. I’m allowing you to exercise your discretion with him, but if he starts to show soul decay, you let him die and you do your damn job.”

Bucky nodded, “I know, sir. I’ve been keeping an eye on him. I haven’t seen anything wrong.”

As he left the room, he thought he heard Nick mutter “yet.”

 

The fire started at 6:15 in the unit next to Steve’s. It started small, and Bucky wondered if maybe he could just put it out and be done with it. That was a level of interference he wasn’t sure he could get away with. Steve’s name was the only one on the list for the address, so he knew putting it out wouldn’t make any difference except in the “loss of property” category. Bucky wasn’t concerned with property. Things were things, and yeah, it sucked when they were lost but they were replaceable – people weren’t.

He was ready to pick the lock to Steve’s unit, but didn’t need to – the door was unlocked, and he let himself in. It was 6:24, and Steve was dozing at his desk, the air already thickening with smoke from the next unit. It wasn’t bad enough yet to trigger his asthma, which Bucky figured was good, but it was quickly filling the small space.

Bucky smiled down at Steve, whose mouth was slightly open as he took deep, slow breaths in his sleep, whose long eyelashes kissed his cheeks, and his stomach clenched because he’d protect this man for as long as it took, for as long as he could. He’d never let anything take his light out of the world.

He leaned over him, hand pressed firmly to Steve’s back, just to feel him, to know that he was solid beneath his fingers. “Stevie. C’mon, Stevie, you gotta wake up.”

He was met with a groan, some muttered words, and Bucky grinned when Steve tried to wiggle away from his hand. It was cute, and Bucky wanted to see Steve waking up under very, very different circumstances, where smoke wasn’t a threat and where Steve was safe.

He pressed his hand firmer to Steve’s back, “Get up, you punk. You gotta get up now.”

Steve jolted in his seat, slowly lifting his head, but Bucky was already stepping away and into the bedroom, looking for a way out of the building. The smoke was drifting in through the front door, and Bucky knew that escape through the hall wasn’t going to happen.

He zeroed in on the window and plopped onto the bed. A moment later, Steve burst into the room, frantic, carrying a portfolio almost as tall as his waist. He watched as Steve stared in horror at the window, at the paint sealing the thing shut. He saw Steve start to panic. When Steve’s eyes finally landed on him, he stood and approached, a plan already forming in his mind. The window would have to go.

“It’s okay, Steve. You’re gonna be okay.” Steve couldn’t panic, couldn’t trigger an attack right now, but Bucky knew exactly what to do to calm him. A reaper’s touch was meant to soothe, to bring comfort, and Bucky used that to his advantage, placing gentle hands on Steve’s shoulders. The broken sob that escaped from Steve’s through nearly broke Bucky’s heart, and if that didn’t then his frightened words did.

Bucky couldn’t stop himself from pulling Steve into a hug, holding the smaller man close and, like he years before, pressing a finger to his lips. It was 6:35. “You can. I’ll help you. You’re gonna be okay.”

He didn’t give Steve any warning of what he was going to do, just turned and grabbed the dresser from beside the bed and smashed it through the window.

At 6:37, Bucky watched Steve scramble through the window before he turned and left the room.

On the mantle, there was a picture of Steve and his mother, left behind in Steve’s panicked rush to get out. Bucky grabbed it and left through the front door and into the smoke-filled hallway.

 

Bucky watched Steve from afar for the next few years. His name never came to him again, and Bucky had never been happier. Steve stayed small and with age his health seemed to even out. He didn’t seem to be getting sick as often, seemed content and his soul continued to glow brightly, no dark edges in sight. Sometimes, Bucky would see him look around, and he knew the blond was looking for him.

Bucky never let himself be seen. When Steve moved to D.C., Bucky followed. Sharon was kind and so much like Peggy that it almost felt like being back in Brooklyn. Things were good for a while, until the night Natasha called. She had transferred to Florida to take over for another reaper who had “retired.”

Of course, she called with bad news.

“Are you sure?” Bucky demanded, and Natasha stayed silent on the other end for a long moment.

She finally relented, “Sarah Elizabeth Rogers. Cervical cancer. I’m supposed to reap her tonight.”

Bucky groaned. God, this would devastate Steve. She was all he had, the only family he could count on, and Bucky hated that Steve was going to have to put his mother in the ground. “Nat. When – when you ferry her, can you… just, tell her that I’m gonna keep watching over Steve? Can you do that for me?”

When Natasha replied, he tone was soft, softer than he’d ever heard it because Natasha was perceptive. Bucky was always lousy at hiding his feelings. “Yeah, James. I’ll tell her he’s in good hands.”

When they finally hang up, Bucky went to Steve’s house and sat on the curb, looking up at Steve’s window. The blond man didn’t notice him, didn’t once glance out the window, and Bucky wasn’t sure if he was glad for that. He could see Sam, Steve’s roommate, puttering around downstairs.

It was past 10 pm when Bucky watched Steve answer his phone. Past 10 pm when he watched Steve shake his head, when Steve slowly pressed the end call button on his phone. It was nearly 11 before Steve moved away from where he’d stood.

The next day, Bucky watched as Sam packed Steve into his truck for the drive to the airport. Bucky didn’t follow him to Florida.

He didn’t think he could handle just watching, not anymore.

 

At Sarah’s funeral, Bucky told Steve everything. He half expected Steve to run screaming for the hills, but the man surprised him. The man always surprised him. He fit against his side like he was meant to be there, meant to be under Bucky’s protection and under his arm. Bucky didn’t ever want to let go.

The most amazing thing, though, the most remarkable, was that despite everything, his soul was still untarnished and bright. Steve Rogers still glowed with such undiluted warmth that it took Bucky’s breath away, constantly.

Earlier in the day, Bucky wrote his own note – a message for Steve, his phone number, because Steve deserved to be able to contact him, and Bucky hoped that Steve would call him, would reach out, would know that Bucky would move mountains for him. He pressed it into Steve’s hand when he walked him to his hotel with, and left him with “Get some rest, Steve.”

 

It was a few hours later, Bucky already on the interstate and heading back to D.C. when he got the text. There was no traffic on the road, but he still pulled over to the shoulder to read it.

“I didn’t peg you as a Bucky. Thanks for being there today.” It said, and Bucky grinned widely, so glad that Steve had reached out.

“:) Any time, Stevie.”

And he meant it. Bucky would be there for Steve anytime, for as long as he can. He pulled back onto the road and continued to D.C.. In a few days time, he’d be back guarding Steve – this time, out of the shadows and at his side.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr, where I cry about Steve and Bucky and sometimes post stuff about the fanfic I'm writing. Feel free to follow me there at [getluckywithbucky](http://getluckywithbucky.tumblr.com)


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